Free Interlude by Lela Gilbert Page B

after an abortion? I don’t dare ask them. They’ll say no.
    Betty paced around the room. She opened the sliding glass door and looked out at the passersby strolling along the sidewalk below. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. She slid the door back in place and clicked the lock. Absentmindedly, she made herself a cup of coffee in the little kitchenette.
    Some people say it’s murder. Is it murder?
    She plopped herself in a chair, spilling the coffee on her nightgown.
    It’s a late period, that’s all. Just a late period. I wouldn’t murder a baby, but I’d go to the ends of the earth to start my period about now.
    Two things troubled Betty. Although the morality of abortion had never been of interest to her, she knew very well that some people were wild-eyed fanatics about the subject. Did they know something she didn’t? Her thinking process was riddled with confusing fears, but she still had enough presence of mind to wonder just what it was she was about to do.
    The other matter was a practical one. What if she was bleeding heavily tomorrow morning? Or in intolerable pain? Or faint and sick to her stomach? She had to use that ticket to get home—it was unchangeable, nonrefundable. And the last thing she wanted to tell Doris and Henry Walker was that she had to pay an extra fare to take a later flight because of a trip to an abortion clinic.
    God, I’m so scared. I’m so scared.
    She took a shower and got dressed. It was 10:00 A.M. by the time she was ready to go. Conflicting thoughts raged in her mind. Religious thoughts. Logistical thoughts. Romantic thoughts. Sentimental thoughts. Tough-minded thoughts. Sorrowful thoughts.
    I need to talk to someone. Not a single person came to mind. Only Jon and how dearly she needed to be in his arms.
    If only . . .
    She scribbled the clinic address on a hotel notepad, grabbed her purse, and rushed out the door. It was a little too early for her to go to the clinic, but she was far too restless to stay in her room. She strode determinedly into the elegant hotel lobby. “Good-bye, Ms. Casey, have a good morning,” the woman at the desk said cheerily.”
    â€œCan I get a cab for you?” said the doorman.
    She nodded.
    He motioned to a waiting taxi.
    â€œWhere are you going, Miss?”
    â€œUh,” she glanced at her watch and at the crumpled paper in her hand. “I’ll explain when I get in the car.”
    He nodded, smiled, and closed the door behind her.
    â€œYes mum?” said the cab driver, who had a heavy East Indian accent.
    She paused. Looked at the paper. Looked out the window. Should she go to the clinic now? Should she go at all . . . ever? Betty fought off some new tears, and shook her head sadly and in resignation.
    Jon’s baby. It’s all I have left of him. I can’t go through with it . . . Finally she said, “Take me to the Smithsonian, please.”
    â€œYes, mum. The Smithsonian. You will like it very much, Mum. I think you will spend the whole day there.”
    Betty looked out the window again and then at the cabbie’s kind face in the rear-view mirror. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll probably stay there all day.”
    Next morning, as Betty was checking out of her room, the clerk at the desk handed her an envelope. Inside she found a silver-colored bracelet, bearing Jon’s name and the date of his kidnapping. It also bore the inscription “Hebrews 13:3.” An enclosed note said that it had been left for her by a representative of some organization called Friends in the West.
    â€œIt’s a prayer bracelet,” the note explained. “Hebrews 13:3 says ‘Remember those in prison as if imprisoned with them.’ We want you to know that the hostages are being remembered in prayer by people all over the world who are wearing these bracelets.
    â€œI’m sorry I couldn’t give you the bracelet in person, but I have to be in Virginia